


Baker Street Imp

by marysutherland



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Kid Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-24
Updated: 2011-11-24
Packaged: 2017-10-26 12:15:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/283014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marysutherland/pseuds/marysutherland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John find a seven-year old in need of help</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by three small girls of my acquaintance.This Harry is not the same one as in the Harry/Molly sequence.

After a while, John had adjusted to Harry being a lesbian; it was much harder coping with her being an alcoholic. The alcoholics he'd come across before had been men, mainly soldiers, making a tedious mess of their own lives. He hadn't realised before Harry how a female alcoholic might be entwined in far more complicated networks of family responsibilities.

As Sherlock often pointed out, most so-called coincidences were just the outcome of a sequence of individually plausible events. It was because Clara hadn't wanted to tell her sister Annie that her reconciliation with Harry had failed, that the long promised week in London for her young niece remained on. It was because Clara was incapable of standing up for herself at work, that she had agreed to an emergency trip to Germany the day her niece arrived. And it was because Harry was still feeling guilty about the second breakup, and Clara was still foolishly willing to give Harry another chance, that Harry had insisted she could look after Annie's daughter on her own, and a desperate Clara had believed that.

And it was because John and Harry didn't get on, that he hadn't spoken to her for a month or more, and so knew nothing about the disaster waiting to happen, till the phone call one Sunday evening in May.

It was a child's voice, a young girl. A wrong number, John thought for a second, and then heard what she was saying: "Hello, are you a friend of Harry...Harriet Watson?"

"I'm her brother. I'm John, Dr John Watson. Who are you?"

"My name's Immy, Immy Palmer, I'm staying with Auntie Harry. Only she's been lying on the sofa for a very long time and I can't get her to wake up."

***

John's training kicked in automatically: he knew the questions to ask to assess if it was an emergency, and the reassuring tone to prevent the person at the other end from panicking. It helped a lot that Immy was obviously bright and resourceful.

"I read this first aid book at school," she explained a few minutes later, "and it said you must only call 999 if there's an emergency, and Auntie Harry's breathing, sort of snoring really, and she's not bleeding, and she told me to go away when I prodded her. So I thought it wasn't an emergency, and I'd better try and phone one of her friends. And it had your number stored in her phone, and, and you can help, can't you?"

"Of course. You've done very well, Immy, you've really been amazing," John focused his thoughts, his voice, down the phone. "Now, Immy, we need to decide what to do next. If you're scared, and you want someone to come and help you right now, then you should call 999 and ask for the police, and they won't mind that it's not an emergency. Or I can call them for you. But if you can wait for another half an hour, just thirty minutes, then I can come and help you, and sort out my little sister. Are you OK to wait for me to come to the flat?" He mustn't push her into doing more than she could cope with, she'd already been through a lot that evening. But if he had to call the police, it wouldn't just be Harry in trouble – she deserved all she got, he reckoned – but Immy as well, if the child protection people got over-enthusiastic.

There was silence for a moment and then Immy said: "I'd rather you came and helped me, Doctor...John. But I don't know if I can open the door of the flat."

"Don't worry, Immy, we'll work that out. I'll stop talking to you just for a bit, while I get what we'll need, but I'll call you again when I'm on my way. Just wait for me, I'll be along soon."

He ended the call, and hurried upstairs to bang on Sherlock's bedroom door.

"Sherlock, I need you to come and help me break into a flat."

***

Immy didn't answer the phone when John rang her back, and he was starting to worry, as they sat in the cab. "She could be trapped, terrified, hurt," he said. "I should have got her to phone 999 immediately."

"She may not want to answer if she doesn't know who's calling," said Sherlock. "Wait till we get there, and we'll assess the situation. Now tell me everything you know about Clara's relatives."

"I don't know much, I'm afraid I always switched off at that point. Immy must be the daughter of Annie, who's Clara's older sister. She's an only child, she's about eight or so. I can't remember anything else at the moment. "

Sherlock groaned. "Right. Then can you at least repeat the conversation you've just had with Immy as accurately as possible. Any detail may be significant."

It was John's turn to groan now, but at least it distracted him from the rising fear in his guts.

***

"You should have told me the details before you dragged me along here," Sherlock protested, as they arrived at the block of flats. "Locks are quick to do, bolts are not. I'd presumed you just wanted me to pick a lock."

"I only remembered just now, " John replied. "Harry got worried the lock on its own wasn't enough. The bolts aren't anything fancy and she may have been too drunk to remember to use them. If not, I'm not sure how else...it's a third storey flat."

"Let's have a quick look before we go inside," said Sherlock, his eyes flicking over the flats. "No easy access from below or either side, our best bet is down from the window of the flat above."

"She's not going to co-operate," John sighed, "not after the complaints about Harry's music over the years. OK, we need to get the police in, or a locksmith at least."

"John, you're forgetting something," said Sherlock, smiling. "It's always easier to break into someone's house if you've got an inside man. Well, inside girl in this case. Let's go and see if Immy can help us."

***

There was no answer to the intercom, but Sherlock managed to persuade the friendlier and more gullible of Harry's next door neighbours not only to let them into the building to prepare for Immy's surprise party, but to borrow Harry's spare set of keys. While Sherlock, otherwise 'Mystico the Marvellous', was demonstrating coin tricks in the neighbour's kitchen, John tried the door to Harry's flat. Damn, she had remembered the bolts.

"Sherlock, I mean Mystico," he said as he went into the kitchen next door, "there seems to be a problem. With the, erm, hat for the rabbit."

Sherlock finished making a mug disappear, and then smiled at the middle-aged woman standing, amazed, by the sink.

"If you want to book me, Mrs Armitage, my details are on my website, 'The Science of Magic'," he announced. "Just to warn you, there may be a bit of banging and shouting from next door while we set up the tricks, so I'd be grateful if you'd just stay in here, and don't come round. It might spoil the surprise, and while my tarantula's very friendly once you get to know him, he's a little nervous in a strange place at first."

"You have a tarantula?" Mrs Armitage demanded, her eyes widening.

"It wouldn't be a proper surprise party for a child without a spider or two. Thank you very much for your help."

As soon as the door was closed, Sherlock turned to John and said:

"The bolts are on then, Right, time for plan B." Before John could reply, Sherlock was crouching down and yelling through the flap of the letter-box:

"Immy, Immy Palmer, it's your Uncle John come to see you, so come and have a word with him!"

Silence, and then the sound of footsteps inside. Suddenly, a pair of dark eyes and a slightly tentative smile appeared through the slit of the letter-box. John bent down beside Sherlock and tried to sound reassuring.

"OK, Immy, I'm here, John Watson, Harry's big brother. Can you let us in, please?"

The smile suddenly vanished. "How do I know you're John? My mum told me not to talk to strange men."

"You spoke to me on the phone a little earlier. Don't you recognise my voice?"

"Not sure."

"And I know your name, and I know about your Auntie Harry, who's currently passed out on the sofa."

"Maybe you overheard all that," There was a pause and then Immy said: "What's the picture over Auntie Harry's mantelpiece?"

"What?"

"If you're her brother, you'll know what the picture is."

"I..." Visual memory way less than 62% here, his mind had gone a total blank...He forced himself to remain calm, to imagine walking into the flat, going into the living room on the right, looking up at the picture..."It's horses. Three horses, running round a field. Chinese horses."

"Five horses," Immy retorted, "and three of them are grazing, not running."

"Immy, your Auntie Harry has a long scar on her left arm, where she broke her arm as a child. The top of her left thumb is all funny and squashy-looking where she cut the tip of it off last year when she was...cooking. And she always has toast and jam for breakfast, and orange juice, except I suspect today she was putting something extra into her orange juice, that she said was water."

"She said it was special water, the label was in Russian, I think. I can't read Russian yet," a small voice said. "OK, you're my uncle John. But who's the other man with you?"

"That's Sherlock, he's my friend. he's going to help us."

"How do I know he's not a strange man?"

"He's-"

"How do I know he's not forcing you to come here as a...hostile so he can get into the flat and rob Auntie Harry?"

"Immy-"

"John," Sherlock interrupted, "can you please just let me talk to Immy." He shoved John out of the way and squatted down to peer through the letter box.

"You won't remember me, Immy," he said, and there was a sudden warmth in his voice, "but my name's Sherlock. I'm a friend of your mother's and she's told me all about you."

"What did she tell you?"

"That you have brown skin and straight black hair like your dad, and you are seven and a half and top of your class. And that your full name is Imogen, but you don't like being called that, and that you want to be a vet when you grow up, and that you like going to McDonald's, but your mother doesn't let you go very often."

"I'm not seven and a half till next week, and I want to be an astronaut when I grow up," said Immy, with sudden smugness.

"So you've changed your mind. Now, if you're happy I am who I say I am, it's time to work out how we open this door, so we can come in. Are there bolts at the top and bottom of the door?"

"Yes," said Immy.

"Never mind the top one at the moment. Do you know how to work the bottom one?"

"Of course I do, but it's really stiff."

"Then we need to lubricate it, reduce the friction. Can you find some cooking oil in the kitchen...no, on second thoughts, the bathroom's probably easier. Is there some soap, liquid soap in a bottle you can squirt out?"

"Yes," said Immy.

"Good, then can you go and get it, please. And can you also bring back something to wedge in the letterbox to keep it open, that'll make it easier to talk."

As Immy retreated, Sherlock, straightened up, turned to John and smiled. "She's perfect for this. Old enough to follow instructions, young enough to accept the strangeness. I just wish she was a bit taller, but that's the Indian heritage, I suppose."

"How do you know...that was spooky," said John. "OK, you could get the hair and skin colour from the bit of her face you could see, but why specifically Indian? And what about all the rest?"

"He father being Indian would fit with the surname, an easy mishearing on your part. Not Palmer, but Parmar, a prominent northern Indian clan. The pattern of milk teeth loss says Immy's seven to seven and a half, child psychology says guess the top of the age range. The brightness is obvious, and then there's the interest in first aid, so there's a high probability she wants to be a doctor or a vet. The kitten I glanced on her T-shirt says animal lover, so vet. Even you should have picked up that Immy's an abbreviation, but that she clearly prefers it to Imogen."

"And McDonald's?"

"She's seven, of course she likes McDonald's. Her mother gives her a middle-class name like Imogen and is liberal enough to let her stay with a lesbian couple, of course she disapproves of McDonald's. Ah, here is Immy, so now just stand back, John, and leave the experts to it." He squatted down again, as casually as if talking to seven year-olds through letter-boxes was his preferred form of conversation.

"Now squirt the soap all over the bolt, Immy, and rub it in with your fingers, never mind the mess. Can you try the bolt again now? Both hands, and make sure you push parallel to the door, not outwards."

There was a screech of metal, and then an excited shout: "I've done it, Sherlock!" And then John could almost see Immy's shoulders slump. "There's still the top bolt."

"The soap will work on that too, you just need to get up there and reach it. John, are there any sturdy but not too heavy chairs in the house? The higher the better."

"The dining tables chair fold up, too risky," John replied slowly. "There's...a bar stool in the kitchen, but I don't know if it's too heavy for Immy to move." There was a snort of disapproval from inside.

"Can you drag the kitchen stool over here, Immy?" Sherlock asked. "Doesn't matter how much noise you make, it won't bother your Auntie Harry. Take it slow and rest if you need to."

The noise was terrible, like a cat in a tin box being dropped down some stairs, but at last they heard Immy's triumphant cry:

"Done it. Do you want me to climb up? I'm a good climber."

"I never doubted it, Immy," said Sherlock. There was a pause and he added, "Can you reach?"

"I can touch the bolt with my fingertips, I need to be just a bit higher to squirt the soap properly."

"Anything you could put on the stool to give you a few extra inches? Some books, a bucket-"

"She'll break her neck, Sherlock!" John protested.

"I know," said Immy, "the pouffe in the living room, I'll go and get that."

***

"A bit of planning now," said Sherlock. "Hold the soap container in your left hand, hold onto the pouffe with the right, as you climb up onto the edge of the stool. Then kneel on the pouffe and jiggle around a bit till you're sure it's centred on the stool. When you're ready, stand up slowly on the pouffe, and as you start to stand up, have your right hand against the door, reach up towards the frame at the top of the door, that'll give you support. If you start to feel shaky at any point, stop and take a few breaths in and out. Are you ready?"

"I'm squirting the soap now," Immy announced a few minutes later, "and I'm rubbing it all in, and...I can't do the bolt with one hand."

"Throw the soap container onto the floor, away from the stool, it won't break. Now, can you reach up with your left elbow and get that against the door frame, at the same height as the bolt? That'll give you more leverage. Good girl, steady yourself. Now both hands on the bolt-"

"Sherlock!" yelled John.

"And push!"

John heard the screech of the bolt, a yell, a crash, and then high-pitched sobs.

"O God," he said, crouching behind Sherlock, who peered intently through the letter-box and said cheerily: "Immy, Immy, you're a star, aren't you? Any bones broken? Can you still talk?"

"I bashed my arm and it really, really, hurts!" Immy wailed.

"That's what I've brought a doctor for. He can show you how to bandage it properly."

Slightly less tearfully, Immy added: "And I think I've bent Auntie Harry's stool."

"Never mind, she can get another one tomorrow. Now if you can just move the stool, we can come in and have a proper talk. But be careful you don't slip on the soap, we don't want an accident."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock must work out what to do with Clara's precocious seven-year old niece, Immy.

Immy was largely as John had expected: gappy grin, huge and eloquent eyes under a shaggy black fringe, yellow T-shirt with a cute black kitten on, shocking pink trousers, and a painfully grazed arm. As he rapidly bathed that, her detailed account of the numerous other cuts and bruises he spotted on her revealed that she thought it hadn't been a good day unless she'd fallen into or onto something. Not entirely sure that he wanted to know the answer, he asked cautiously:

"How did you manage to get so muddy, Immy?"

"There was this dog I was playing with in Hyde Park. He was great fun, only he was a kind of retriever, and he kept going into the Serpent lake and coming back and bouncing over me. My mum doesn't let me play with strange dogs, but Auntie Harry didn't seem to mind."

"What else has Harry let you do?"

"Not much, because I only got here on Friday evening, and we had to take Auntie Clara to the airport. Yesterday we went to the Tower of London and _The Lion King_ and then the Hard Rock Cafe, and we had sticky ribs and it was so cool. And then this morning we went to Hyde Park, which was fun and we came home and had lunch, and we were supposed to go out for a boat trip, but Auntie Harry said she wasn't feeling very well, so we stayed here. And she was saying funny things, and she didn't make me tea, and I am really incredibly hungry right now..."

"I'll have a quick look at Harry, and then I'll make you some tea."

"But I really am, hungry and it's been hours and hours since lunch." There was a whine in her voice and tears were clearly near.

"You go and look at Harry, John," said Sherlock, sailing into the bathroom, "and I'll feed Immy. You don't need to show me where the kitchen is, Immy, because I'm very good at finding things out and I bet I can deduce what you like to eat." John took one look at Immy, spotted the signs of yet another female falling hopelessly in love with Sherlock, and went to check on his sister.

***

Harry was going to have a king-sized hangover the next day, John concluded, but was otherwise OK, which was a lot better than she deserved. By the time he'd cleared the worst of the mess from the living room, Sherlock and Immy reappeared.

It didn't take the world's greatest detective to conclude from Immy's face and clothes that her meal had included egg, ketchup, chocolate, and something blackcurranty. John rather doubted it had included anything of real nutritional value.

"Do you know how to feed a child?" he asked Sherlock.

"Only one efficient way to feed a seven-year old," Sherlock replied. "They know what they like and they're old enough to tell you. You just show them things from the cupboards and ask what appeals."

"That T-shirt's never going to be the same again."

"I don't care!" said Immy. "I hate this T-shirt, but Mum makes me wear it. I think kittens are just so boring!"

"There's always one thing wrong," said Sherlock. "What's next?"

"I'll get Immy cleaned up and in bed. Do you think you could go round the flat and find the rest of Harry's...cache. You know where people hide things."

***

Immy looked even cuter once bathed and in her pink pyjamas with the chintz cats on – John was starting to recognise a theme here.

"OK," he said, "time for bed now, you've had a very busy day. I'll stay here tonight, so there's no need to worry about anything."

"My mum said I could stay up till Auntie Harry or Auntie Clara told me to go to bed."

"It's late and I'm sure you're tired."

"But Auntie Clara's not here and Auntie Harry hasn't told me to go to bed, so I don't have to."

"Yes, but Harry, your auntie, isn't in a fit state to tell you that. I'm telling you that."

"You're not my auntie."

"I'm your uncle, sort of uncle. Acting uncle. Medical advisor. And I'm telling you it is time for your bed."

"But Mum said it was up to my aunties, and I ought to do what Mum said, oughtn't I?"

Ten minutes later, John beat a retreat. It needed a sharper mind than his to solve this problem.

***

"From the number and condition of the empties," Sherlock announced, "and the state of this kitchen, I'd say your sister had been sober for at least a week, but started drinking again this morning."

"Sounds familiar," said John. "She'll be fine for just long enough to fool you into thinking things are different and then she'll get stressed and crash. I don't know what Clara was thinking of." He had a pretty clear idea now of why Harry had got stressed: caring for any seven-year old girl, let alone Immy, wasn't restful.

"Clara was thinking about living rooms, literally. She went off to a furniture trade fair in Cologne," said Sherlock.

"How did you work that one out?"

"Immy couldn't remember where Clara was going, but she could remember the flight number. Clara wouldn't have gone off like that unless it was something work-related, and the Interzum fair started yesterday. I may be able to track Clara down tonight, if you need that, otherwise tomorrow morning."

"Tomorrow morning's probably more realistic to get her back here, which is really not good," said John, rapidly calculating. "I can stay here tonight, but I'm at the surgery tomorrow from eight. I can't leave Immy alone, and Harry will be in no fit state for anything, even if I trusted her. "

"Would Lestrade know someone?" Sherlock asked.

"He'd have to take official notice, call in the child protection people, and I'd rather spare Immy that. OK, I'll just have to scrub the surgery, which Sarah is not going to be happy about."

"Can't you get Sarah-"

"Don't even suggest that. Asking your ex-girlfriend to help you look after your sister's ex's niece is not going to go down well, and tomorrow is not Take Someone Else's Daughter to Work Day."

"Mrs Hudson?"

"Our landlady, not our babysitter. I'll just have to stay here tomorrow and miss the shift. If you can get Clara back here sometime tomorrow, that'd be a help. Tuesday at the latest."

"Stay here!" Sherlock announced with horror. "I need you tonight, back in Baker Street."

"What?"

"Have you forgotten the Mazarin Diamond?" Sherlock enquired.

"No, but unless Lord Cantlemere has lost the thing again, the case is over. You didn't even get murdered."

"But I've had some very interesting ideas about how we can refine Billy, in case we need to use him again."

John groaned. One Sherlock in the flat was bad enough, but two – even if one was a decoy animatronic figure nicknamed Billy – was worse. There were times when he wondered about putting a bullet through Billy's head first, before someone else did. He could always claim it was for research purposes.

"We can talk about that some other time," he protested.

"It must be tonight. A man's sanity is at stake!"

"Whose?"

"Mine. This morning, while you were out, I ended up having a three-way conversation. Myself, the skull and Billy, and Billy was definitely coming out with the best lines."

"Sherlock," John said firmly, shutting his eyes and trying to focus on reality. "I have to stay here and look after Immy."

"You have to look after Immy, but Harry will be OK on her own, won't she? You wouldn't stay if it was just her?"

"No, I wouldn't."

"And when she does wake up, you're going to want to kill her with your bare hands, aren't you?"

"She had a seven-year old to look after and she got drunk!"

"It's hardly going to help Immy is it, if her uncle and aunt are having angry bust-ups? The solution's obvious. Bring Immy back to 221B."

"Our flat isn't exactly child-friendly, Sherlock."

"Do you think this is?" Sherlock replied blandly. "Besides, you want to see our flat, don't you, Immy?"

Immy stood smiling in the kitchen doorway in her pink pyjamas, an irresistibly sweet picture from a magazine advert, and said:

"I really want to see Sherlock's eyeballs. Can I, Uncle John, they sound so gross?" She paused, and then added, with sudden heartbreaking pathos. "And I don't want to stay here, I don't feel happy here, I'd be much happier with both of you in your flat..."

She could give master classes in emotional blackmail to Sherlock, John thought, but he could hardly blame her for not wanting to stay here.

"Sherlock," he said, "go home, remove all the crime scene photos from the living room, and put anything remotely poisonous in your bedroom, preferably under lock and key. Immy's best sleeping in my room, so remove anything of yours that's in there as well. I'll sleep on the couch tonight."

He could see Sherlock absorb the additional message: for the purposes of tonight, they weren't a couple. Immy's mother might be OK with Harry and Clara, it didn't necessarily mean she'd be happy about a pair of unfamiliar gay men looking after her child. Then a sudden, more urgent, worry struck John.

"Oh," he added, "and dispose of the frogs."

"I like frogs!" Immy protested.

"Not in this state, you wouldn't. They're...past their best. If Immy's going to come we need to get the flat vaguely respectable."

"Anything else?" said Sherlock, miraculously unconcerned at the thought of tidying up.

"Is there any way you can get a friend of yours to drive over and pick us up? I'm not getting into a cab on my own with someone else's pyjama-clad daughter, that's the sort of thing that gets you in jail for life, but I'd rather not have to get Immy dressed up again." Getting her undressed had seemed to involve far too much discussion as it was.

"Hatty Doran's our best bet," said Sherlock, "best motorcycle courier in London."

"Immy's not going on a motorbike," said John, which got a series of sulky snorts from Immy. Had he really just agreed to have her and Sherlock stay in the same flat?

"I'll sort something out with Hatty," said Sherlock. "Don't worry, John and I'll see you later, Immy."

Once Sherlock had gone, Immy turned and smiled at John. "This is going to be a really cool adventure."

"Yes, but you need to go to your room now, Immy."

"It's not my bedtime. Oh, do you mean to pack? I'll need some help."

"I'll come and help you later. But anyhow, go to your room now. It doesn't matter if you don't go to bed, you can just read a book or something."

"But-"

"Imogen Parmar, believe me, you do not want to watch me put an alcoholic to bed."

"What's an alcoholic?"

Shit, thought John. "It's a bit complicated. Ask your Auntie Clara to explain sometimes. But now go to your room."

***

Hatty Doran was black-haired, with large dark eyes, a beautiful mouth, and a lot of motorbike equipment in her arms.

"Hi, Dr Watson," she said, "your chariot awaits. Well, it's really a Yamaha with a Sauer double sidecar, but it'll do you for tonight. Afraid I've only got a helmet for you, but I've brought some leathers as well for your niece. Reckon they'll fit, Sherlock said seven but teeny. Why's she in her PJs?"

"My Auntie Harry-," Immy began.

"It's a long story," said John, "but I ought to get her to bed as soon as possible. So you can get us back to Baker Street?"

"Sure. How long are you in London, honey?"

"All this week."

"If you want her to try some off-road riding, I could arrange that, Dr Watson. Very reasonable rates, for a friend of Sherlock."

"Immy's seven!"

"My youngest started at four, when she could reach the pedals. You wanna have them be motocross stars, you start 'em young, before they worry about falling off."

"Ms Doran, I...can you please just take us home?" said John. It had never before seemed relevant that Sherlock knew people not only willing to do crazy things, but do crazy things accompanied by small children.

"OK, let's get moving then."

***

Back at 221B, John found that his bed had been mysteriously kitted out with a frilly sheet, a pale pink duvet, and even a teddy bear. He told Immy to start unpacking, and went hurriedly back downstairs to the living room to thank Mrs Hudson, and get her out of the way before Immy started complaining. He thought she was just out of earshot before Immy re-emerged, dragging the bear by its fluffy jumper:

"I don't want a teddy-bear, I'm not five. And anyhow, I always sleep with Ruby. You did bring her, didn't you Uncle John? She's green and gold and the cuddliest toy rattlesnake you could have, and you wouldn't believe how long her forked tongue is."

"I brought her," John said, "she'll be in your bag somewhere. Now go upstairs and try and get some sleep, because you promised Sherlock you would."

***

John groaned when the alarm clock went off. 6.45 am, and he had to be at the surgery by ten to eight. Not much time to waste, and...why was he sleeping on the sofa, anyhow? Then he heard a child's voice from the kitchen, and the memory of last night slammed back into his sleepy brain.

He rapidly showered and dressed, and then psyched himself up to go and investigate. When he got in the kitchen, still rubbing his eyes, and trying to sound coherent, he found Immy dressed and eating Cheesy Wotsits. Sherlock was still in his dressing gown and drinking coffee, and announced as John went in:

"If you can't get real eyeballs, then the best alternative is to peel some grapes, put them in a plastic bag and give them to your friends in the dark, for them to feel. You can have some uncooked sausages in there as well, the sort that are linked together, they're not a bad substitute for intestines, at least for someone who's never felt the real thing. Do you want some toast, John, we've got quite a lot spare? Immy decided she didn't want any."

"A slice, I haven't time for more. I've got to get to the surgery...," John's voice trailed off as he remembered. "I forgot all about phoning Sarah last night, didn't I, to cancel the shift? OK, I'll do it now. Unless Mrs Hudson..." He had vaguely hoped Mrs Hudson might rally round, or even her friend Mrs Turner from next door, that'd been why he'd left it. Which had been stupid of him.

"It'll piss off...irritate Sarah," said Sherlock, "which isn't very helpful for my plans."

"Well, I can't take Immy with me, and I can't leave her here alone...No, Sherlock!" John said, as the alternative suddenly hit him.

"She's spent two days with your sister and coped. Are you really saying I'm less responsible than Harry?"

"Yes...no. Maybe."

"Don't you trust me, John?" Sherlock's smile was bland, but there was a tiny edge to his voice. John had spent months, after all, trying to introduce Sherlock to the concepts of normal behaviour, consideration for others, caring for people. When he'd first met Sherlock he wouldn't have left him in charge of anything living, even if he'd offered. Now...

"OK," he said, hoping he wasn't being rash. "You can look after Immy today. But just stay here in the flat, both of you, don't answer the door, don't let Lestrade come round. Sherlock, stick to the children's channels on TV and try to get Immy to have at least one portion of fruit and veg at some point. My shift finishes at half-four, I can be back by half-five, so it's ten hours or so. Not ideal, I know, but I'm sure you'll manage. Immy, you stay here, and do what Sherlock tells you, as long as it doesn't sound too silly, and, and just don't go anywhere or do anything. Is that OK?"

Two voices announced in almost simultaneous response: "Boring!"

***

John decided after a couple of minutes that he didn't have time to argue with Sherlock, let alone Immy; he'd probably miss half his shift anyhow, in the time it'd take to get her to agree to his plan. So he took the line of least resistance and concentrated on practicalities: making sure Immy had their address and phone number, and knew what to do if she got separated from Sherlock, and reminding Sherlock of the basic concept of a balanced diet for a child. And also coaching Immy to say that Sherlock was her mother's brother, not her mother's sister's ex-partner's brother's flatmate. He wasn't sure whether to be reassured or alarmed at how quickly she picked up her new identity. A final brief argument about where they should go, and then John had to hurry off, as Immy started to discuss all the animals she wanted to see at London Zoo.

John still wasn't sure that any plan involving Sherlock, a seven-year old girl, and London Zoo was a good idea. On the other hand, there were worse ones: Sherlock, a seven-year old girl, and the Greenwich planetarium; Sherlock, a seven-year old girl and the London Dungeons. Or worst of all, Sherlock, a seven-year old girl, and a mini motorbike.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John still wasn't sure that any plan involving Sherlock,  a seven-year old girl, and London Zoo was a good idea...

It was half-past ten before the first text from Sherlock arrived, and John found it almost reassuring under the circumstances.

 _Do you know a good book on mating habits of gorillas? May have inadvertently misinformed Immy on details. SH_

The next, at 11.23 am, was more worrying:

 _Immy likes the reptile house. Pick up more Stain Devils on the way home. SH_

John tried not to panic and texted back: _We have lots of stuff already for removing bloodstains or mud. John_

The reply was immediate:

 _What about ice-cream, chocolate and giraffe dung? SH_

And then, a minute or two later:

 _Do Stain Devils work on hair? If not, investigate alternatives. SH_

John sighed and wondered if returning Immy as a skinhead would alarm Harry and Clara.

***

After lunch there was another text: _Bored with zoo. Off to London Aquarium. Immy likes sharks. SH_. John told himself firmly that they had safety precautions at places like that, probably very good ones. Almost certainly proof against even an ingenious seven-year old, and a not very reliable detective.

***

By late afternoon, he was starting to relax. Harry had phoned, grovelling madly, and had said that she was sober and Clara was back from Germany. He hadn't believed Harry's promises that this time she really would stay sober for good, but she would almost certainly be OK for the rest of the week, especially with Clara on the lookout. So Immy could be taken back there safely in the evening, with nothing but a few good memories of London and some extra stains. He grinned and looked at the latest text message he'd received:

 _Giant ray a hit. Pick up takeaway on way home. McDonald's, KFC or pizza all OK. Avoid fish and chips. SH_.

He'd seen his last patient, and was just starting to tidy up his desk when there were voices raised outside, as the receptionist insisted that surgery was over. His door burst open and a staggeringly grubby Immy rushed in, and gave him a hug.

"Did you know the best thing about sharks, Uncle John? They can smell a single drop of blood in a swimming pool full of water. And they can find fish buried in the sand because they can sense the electric charge they give off. Wouldn't it be amazing to be a shark, only you might get killed by horrible humans?"

She'd obviously had a great time, thought John, and she would clean up. Probably even the T-shirt would be OK with enough washing, although it had kittens on it as well, so Immy wouldn't mind if it was wrecked. And Sherlock...Sherlock was not looking suicidal, or distracted, or even manic, but oddly calm and mysteriously clean. Whereas Immy was rapidly transferring surplus grime to his own shirt...

"Don't you trust me on the takeaway?" he asked. "I'm going to be about twenty minutes yet with the paperwork, so you're probably better off not waiting for me."

"Immy needs a quick medical consultation," Sherlock announced.

There couldn't be much wrong with her, thought John, from the way she was bouncing around and talking.

"Sunburn, grazes, cuts? Oh..." he said, as he suddenly realised that not all the marks on Immy would wash off. "She's got some spots on her face, hasn't she?"

"And my hands, and my arms, Uncle John, and I think maybe on my chest as well."

***

It took him less than two minutes to diagnose chicken pox and getting on for an hour to work out what to do. Partly because nobody, himself included, seemed able to remember their childhood illnesses, which meant a lot of phoning round checking medical records.

"OK," he said at last. "I've had chicken pox, so have Clara and Mrs Hudson, Harry hasn't, and we're still not sure about Sherlock. But if you haven't had it by now, I think you're almost certainly going to get it after today's exposure, Sherlock. And Immy's still infectious for another six or seven days, till her spots scab over. So the best thing to do is to have you both in quarantine in Baker Street, because I really don't want you rushing around London being a public health hazard, and I can keep an eye on you there."

"So I don't have to go back to Auntie Harry's?" said Immy, happily.

"No. There's a chance she may not have been infected. And chicken pox can be quite serious for people with...weakened immune systems," John said. He didn't add that looking after Immy while she was in quarantine was just the sort of stressful situation to get Harry drinking again. "I'll see if I can persuade Sarah to drive you two home, you shouldn't really be using public transport. And then just stay in the flat and don't cause trouble, because I'll be a while picking up the supplies we need."

Seven days of Sherlock and Immy stuck inside a smallish flat, he thought. I wonder who'll crack first.

***

Most of Tuesday wasn't too bad. Sarah had been surprisingly willing to let John have the week off work, given that 'Sherlock's niece' was ill. He suspected that she thought Sherlock's imaginary sister was a terrible mother for allowing her child to stay with Sherlock , sick or well, but he'd have to leave the real explanation for a later date. And they'd also now discovered that Sherlock had had chicken pox before. John should have realised that Mycroft would have all the data about that. And the fact that Sherlock's medical records hadn't mentioned his illness, because his parents 'didn't believe in doctors' explained quite a lot about Sherlock's more recent urges to DIY medical treatment.

He'd also realised that he'd made the right decision about looking after Immy. Clara had come round to 221B and been...helpless. Helpless about Harry's drinking, and her job, and Immy's chicken pox, and life in general. He'd sent her home to Harry and told her they could manage with Immy on their own, and she hadn't protested.

It was almost embarrassing now to think that he'd once found Clara's blonde, wispy, frailty endearing, sexy even. Now, the women he liked – and he still liked a lot of women as friends, even if it was Sherlock that he loved – were strong ones, able to stand up for themselves. Like Sarah, like - in her own peculiar way – Mrs Hudson. Like Immy was going to be in ten years time. God help the teenaged boys who were going to tangle with Immy, he thought, they had no idea what would hit them.

***

Immy had been feverish and unhappy on Tuesday morning, but by the evening she was bouncy again. And even more spotty.

"Have you ever seen so many spots on one person, Uncle John? I counted up to 257, but then I lost track. Maybe I should make a mark against each one once I've counted it next time?"

"No, biro and spots do not mix."

"Then can Sherlock take some photos of me, so I can show my friends? And he said it would it be useful for him to have images showing rashes with different skin colours."

"Yes, he can take photos," John said rapidly, "face and arms only, tell him in the copies he keeps for himself he has to anonymise you."

"OK," said Immy, "and I can tell Mum all about them when I phone tonight. Oh..."

Oh God, thought John, and asked, as neutrally as he could: "How often are you supposed to be phoning your mother when you're away?"

"Every night," Immy replied, and her big eyes looked innocently up at him, "but, but Auntie Harry forgot, and I sort of forgot to remind her."

If I get this wrong, we'll have social services round, John thought, but how on earth do I explain it? "Sherlock," he yelled, "I need your advice."

***

John wasn't convinced this was going to work, but he didn't have a better alternative, so he dialled Mrs Parmar's number.

"Mrs Parmar? My name's Dr John Watson, I'm Harriet Watson's brother. I don't want to worry you at all, but we've got a slight medical problem with Imogen."

He had to sound professional, stuffy, and over-conscientious, Sherlock had told him, and he tried to channel all the more finicky and old-fashioned GPs he could remember. He just hoped he didn't accidentally end up sounding like Dr Finlay.

"Once I realised Imogen had chicken pox, I was obviously concerned about my sister, given that she has a history of poor health. My flatmate's away at the moment, so it seemed simplest to have Clara and Imogen stay here, reassure myself the patient was all right." He tried not to sound like a man whom Clara might have suddenly fallen for, and then abruptly realised he probably didn't need to.

He made reassuring noises when Mrs Parmar started on the importance of Immy eating healthily and behaving nicely, and then said:

"I'm sorry Clara can't talk to you now, she's having a rest, I think Immy, Imogen's rather worn her out. But if you'd like a word with Imogen herself now..." He handed his phone to Immy with a look that he hoped somehow conveyed that Immy shouldn't say anything about Harry, or Sherlock, or giraffe dung, or motorcycle sidecars, or...rather a lot of other things.

Fortunately, Immy was instinctively able to talk at 90 mph without revealing anything best lest concealed. It was only right at the end that she slipped up. "And I've got to go now, Mum, because there's this programme on about rainforests and Sherlock said he'll watch it with me-"

Immy broke off, and cast a desperate glance at John. And then she was suddenly smiling again, and announcing down the phone:

"Sherlock's the boy from next door, he knows lots of cool things about sharks, but would you believe he didn't know about the earth going round the sun? Got to go, Mum, love you, bye."

John took the phone back and made reassuring noises about Sherlock being nine, going on twenty-nine, top of his class at prep school, and his family having high hopes for him. He exchanged a few more banalities, and then hung up, slightly too abruptly. For all Annie Parmar's insistence on Immy's need for a proper diet and suitable friends, she'd also made it indirectly clear that she wasn't interrupting her holiday and coming down to London till Immy was recovered. He was starting to feel rather sorry for Immy.

***

"So what are we doing tomorrow?" Immy demanded when the TV programme was over. "I'm feeling much, much better now, so can we go to the London Eye? Sherlock says he can show me how to hang upside down in one of the capsules."

"You're still infectious," John said firmly. "So tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after that, and in fact for the rest of your holiday, you are staying right here in this flat."

"But that's so boring, Uncle John! That's really, really not fair. Why do you have to be so incredibly mean and boring and rotten?"

***

Five minutes later, John was starting to feel rather sorry for himself.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock now have a precocious seven-year old with chicken pox staying with them at 221B.

John didn't know how he would have got through the following week without Sherlock. Immy was quite easy to care for physically, even if he did have to remind her at least every twenty minutes not to scratch her spots. Keeping her entertained, however, was well beyond his capacity. Sherlock, however, to John's amazement, seemed delighted rather than deterred by someone with a mind just as enquiring as his, an even lower threshold of boredom, and a more effective sulking technique. He claimed he was simply gathering data, of course, and it was probably true that no-one had allowed him such extended access to a seven-year old before, but it was more than that. John wondered what Sherlock had been like at that age, and thought that one day, he would have to ask Mycroft. For now it was enough that Sherlock could find all sorts of entertaining things for Immy to do in the flat. Some of them were even suitable for repeating to Mrs Parmar.

Teaching Immy card tricks and how to play chess, for example, verged on the normal, as did Sherlock's recital of endless jokes and poems - obviously he'd been less discriminating about filling up his mental hard drive as a young child. And there were things that could be made to sound normal if you didn't go into the full details. Playing with a remote control robot, for example, sounded quite ordinary, if you didn't mention that it was a life-sized replica of Sherlock. Though Immy had been very disappointed that Billy could neither talk nor dance. ("He stands by the window and stares out," John explained, "or he sits and looks at a laptop, or he lies on the sofa and thinks. You can mimic about 80% of Sherlock's activity in the flat on some days with those three positions alone.") A game where you created funny faces also sounded unremarkable, as long as you kept quiet about it being done with an old-fashioned photofit kit that Sherlock had 'borrowed' from Scotland Yard. And then there was learning Morse code...

***

Most people, if they decided to teach a child Morse code, wouldn't encourage them to practice sending messages at mealtimes by banging their cutlery. John put a stop to that after ten painfully loud minutes, and realised shortly afterwards, from the sudden quiet, and the intent look on Immy's face, that she was trying to blink in Morse. He suspected, from Sherlock's puzzled expression, that she wasn't getting the distinction between long and short blinks right. Then he noticed that Immy was staring at the now slightly fading spots on her arm...

"Immy," he announced hurriedly, "if you try and write Morse code using your spots and a felt-tip pen, you will be watching nothing but CBeebies for the rest of the week. Do you understand?"

"You are boring, Uncle John. Why are you so boring?"

***

That hadn't been Immy's only complaint, of course.

"Why won't you teach me unarmed combat?" she had asked on Thursday.

"Because Sherlock's going to do that, but only if you promise not to tell your mother."

"Sherlock says you're better than him, coz of having been in the army, and you're nearer my size than he is."

"Well, certainly not tonight, Immy. I'm going over to Clara's, to make sure she phones your mother." He didn't add that he was also going to check on Harry. He wasn't sure he could put into words why it suddenly mattered to him so much that she sorted herself out, if she did really mean it this time. Perhaps his mind was going back thirty years to another sparky and funny, if not quite so bright, small girl. Blonde and blue-eyed, and not prepared to take orders from her big brother.

"Can you tell Mum that I can't talk to her because the spots in my ear make it hard to hold the phone?"

"I'll think of something," said John. Somehow, it hadn't yet registered with Mrs Parmar that she talked each evening to John and either Immy or Clara, but never all three. Three more days to go. They'd get through it yet.

***

And then suddenly there were only two many days to go, no, one and a half, because Annie Parmar was arriving on Sunday morning. John needed to go out for more supplies on Friday evening, but he lingered for a few minutes in the living room, watching Immy and Sherlock play Black Jack. It was an oddly domestic scene. If he'd ended up with Sarah, or Ruth, or one of the other women he'd dated over the years, it might have been him there, playing with his daughter. Of course, he wouldn't have been manipulating the game in quite the ruthless way Sherlock was. Why did Sherlock feel the need to win any game he played? And was he really able to win quite that easily every time?

Then Immy accused Sherlock of cheating, and he replied that she'd taken far too long to notice, and why hadn't she heard before about marked cards? And she'd giggled and said that she'd worked out he must be cheating by looking at the reflection of his cards in the darkened window.

No, if he had ended up with a seven-year old, she wouldn't have been like Immy. She was a random fluke, or perhaps the product of heredity. John found himself wondering again what else apart from her looks she'd inherited from the father she never mentioned...and whom Annie Parmar also never mentioned. Then he got up and hurried out, because the list of supplies was quite complicated, and if he'd didn't get them all, there'd be trouble.

He got sodium bicarbonate and vinegar (for foaming monsters), origami paper (for model dinosaurs and Sherlock's amazing flapping Pegasus), borax (for slime), and extra long rubber bands (he dreaded to think). Immy had put "African land snails" on the list again, which he found funny by now, and "Salt Peter", which he still didn't. She'd also put "Goodbye card x 2". It took a surprisingly long time to find ones that were not sentimental, but funny and clean, and that had absolutely no kittens or puppies or rabbits on.

***

There was a note propped up on the kitchen table when he got home. "Expedition tomorrow along Regent's Canal toepath. Leave at 5 am sharp. Camoflag may be needed." He groaned. The early morning expeditions had been Sherlock's idea, of course. Immy had to get some fresh air and exercise, he'd pointed out, so it was logical to choose times and places when there was no-one around: "Or at least only people with more to worry about than catching chicken pox. Don't worry, John, I knew some very secluded parts of London."

The thought of Sherlock and Immy in mostly deserted parts of London in the early hours of the morning had alarmed John enough to ensure that he went along too. And though it was often exhausting, and invariably grubby, they'd had fun as well. Seeing the sun rise on Parliament Hill, panning for gold in St James' Park, and walking across to Chiswick Eyot at low tide (though that had reminded John that Sherlock and tide-tables were not a reliable combination, especially if you didn't have legs as long as Sherlock's).

***

It was mid-morning on Saturday before they'd got themselves out of Regent's Canal and back home, and John had also managed to wash all their clothes sufficiently to dilute their smell to manageable proportions. By then, Immy was bored with paper dinosaurs, and was starting to complain about Sherlock and John's inadequate answers to her questions on black holes.

"I've sorted out this afternoon," Sherlock announced. "Georgio from Speedy's Sandwiches keeps geckoes and he's bringing them round."

"No animals!" John protested, and got a barrage of 'hurrs' from Immy. "Mrs Hudson will go spare."

"She's out at a matinee and Georgio swears on his mother's grave he had chicken pox aged four and the geckoes are house-trained."

"Geckoes are really fun, and I'm so bored, and it's my last day-" Immy began. John sighed.

"OK, Immy," he said, "you and Sherlock google 'cross-species transmission of varicella' and if there's no mention of reptiles, tell Georgio he can come."

***

It was the last video evening, so even Sherlock accepted that Immy got to choose what they watched.

"But remember the ground rules," John said. "U or PG certificate only, and nothing with Humphrey Bogart in it."

"Do you know how to whistle, Uncle John?" Immy smiled up at him. "You just put your lips together and blow."

"I know how to whistle, Immy, you don't. If you don't make up your mind soon, I'll choose."

"Ben Hur."

"Too long."

"We can fast forward to the chariot race," said Sherlock.

"Not suitable for discussing in phone calls to your mother," John said firmly.

"Tell her you watched a film about Jesus," said Sherlock. "What's wrong, Immy?"

"There isn't going to be another phone call, is there?" Immy was suddenly wailing. "Mum's going to collect me tomorrow morning!"

"Yes," said Sherlock, "but tonight there is chariot racing, and you need to learn how to cheat at that as well. So pass the DVD over, John, and I'll find us the right place."

***

Sunday morning brought more trauma.

"Can't we at least go out to the park?" Immy asked plaintively after breakfast. "I'm not in quarantine anymore, and it's hours till Mum gets here, and I'm bored!"

"And the park is muddy," John pointed out.

"Which means Sherlock can show me about footmarks properly, not just with talc on the bathroom floor."

"Sherlock's not back from Smithfield Market yet," John said, "and no, you should not have gone and helped him buy his hearts, because if I accidentally turn you into a vegetarian, your mother would not forgive me. And even when Sherlock gets back, he has to go again by 10 am, so that we've got an hour to tidy the flat. Yes, I know that's boring. But if your mother realises that Sherlock's been here all the time, and not Clara we will be in really deep...giraffe dung."

***

"9.57. I'd better go, Immy," said Sherlock, abruptly ending a monologue on termites, and levering himself up from the sofa. "Give me a hug, but try not to crease my shirt."

"I don't _want_ you to go!" Immy said, bounding up from her position on the floor, and clinging onto Sherlock. After a minute, he detached himself from her embrace.

"I've got a new case, Immy, can't stay around any longer. Take care, and remember what I told you about Auntie Harry."

"All right. Goodbye...Sherlock." Immy's tone ought to break even a sociopath's heart, thought John, but Sherlock just smiled, and then left the flat without a backwards glance.

"That wasn't very cool of me, was it, Uncle John?" said Immy, once Sherlock was gone, rubbing her eyes.

"It was Sherlock's fault for being a pain," said John, stroking her hair, as she curled herself around him on his chair, like a small animal that was definitely not a kitten. "He is sometimes, you know that."

"Are you and Sherlock married?" Immy suddenly asked, looking up at him intently. He should have guessed he couldn't fool her, John thought.

"No."

"Are you going to get married?"

"Maybe, sometime. But I'm not sure if Sherlock wants to marry anybody."

"Well I think if he does, he'll want to marry you, not me. But that's OK," said Immy, who seemed to be recovering rapidly. "I can marry Vicky or Tom from my class, I'm just not sure which one. Because Vicky is my best friend, but Tom has a pet rat."

"Go for Vicky," John said firmly. "Friends last a lot longer than pet rats."

"But suppose it was a pet elephant? They live for years and years."

"You shouldn't keep elephants as pets."

"But what if someone did have one, because they'd rescued it from the circus and it was too tame now to go back to the wild? Would you rather marry someone who was your best friend or had a pet elephant in that case?"

"Tricky," said John, smiling, "It'd probably depend on how friendly the elephant was."

"You're being silly, Uncle John," Immy said firmly. "It's a perfectly sensible question."

"Yes, but we haven't got time to discuss it now," John replied. "Because here comes Clara, and you can remember better than I can all the things she needs to be briefed on. And we need to hide Billy, and the slime, and Sherlock's collection of scabs."


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John have survived looking after a seven-year old girl for a week, but there are still mysteries about her to be solved...

John hoped that Clara would keep quiet when Mrs Parmar arrived, and not reveal anything alarming. 11 am, 11.05, 11.10 and here was Annie Parmar at last. Early thirties, wavy blonde hair like Clara, but slightly overweight, rather than Clara's waiflike figure. Smartly dressed, although her scarf was hideous – a cat design, of course. John wished he was Sherlock and could deduce her entire personal history from her outfit. He did spot the ring on her finger, and wondered again about the absent Mr Parmar. Mrs Parmar's smiling embrace of Immy was a little too bright, but so was Immy's response. John made an offer of coffee, to prove respectability, which was accepted, to prove graciousness. He braced himself to play this right.

"It was so kind of you to help look after Imogen, Dr Watson," Mrs Parmar said, smiling. "I really feel Clara was imposing on you a little."

"It was fine, just fine. You have a very...charming daughter, Mrs Parmar. Very bright and well-informed as well." A mild pleasantry was called for now, he thought. "She's told me a lot of very interesting facts about sharks."

"Imogen's very fond of animals," Mrs Parmar replied, "but she can be a little...headstrong."

"It's very hard for any child to be cooped up in quarantine for so long. Immy, Imogen's done remarkably well."

"You live here alone, Dr Watson?"

"Temporary flat share, while I get sorted out after Afghanistan." He gave her a look that said 'modest war hero', and hoped Immy wouldn't start laughing.

"John's been wonderful," said Clara. "Harry and I couldn't have managed without him."

"My pleasure," he replied. "Imogen, have you got all your things?"

"Yes, Uncle John," Immy replied, somehow managing to sound like the world's most obedient child.

"Uncle John?" asked Mrs Parmar.

"Well, what am I supposed to say, Mum? 'Yes, Dr Watson? No, Dr Watson?' That would be so uncool. And he's not really that boring."

John's laugh was the first genuine emotion he'd expressed in the whole meeting. A few more pleasantries to get through, and then Mrs Parmar asked:

"Whose T-shirt is that, by the way? The one Imogen has on."

"Oh, that's my gift to her," he replied. "I was doing a wash and there was an accident with one of her T-shirts, the one with the rabbit on, so I got her that one as a replacement."

"It's from the Natural History Museum," Immy said. "Uncle John said that since I couldn't go there this time, at least I could have this to remind me about it. Isn't it amazing?"

The T-shirt was white, and had a large picture of an orange tree frog on the front. It'd taken John a lot of time to find the right one, but it had been worth it for Immy's smile when she'd unwrapped it last night.

"It was very kind of Dr Watson, John, to give it to you," said Mrs Parmar. "It's very...colourful." Her tone hinted that John might be a war hero, but he had appalling taste in T-shirts. She added: "I hope you haven't bought her anything else. I mean, really, I ought to be giving you something for all your hard work."

She hadn't, however, done so, John noted. He felt slightly less guilty at misleading her so much.

"Clara's given me a white rabbit," Immy announced.

"A rabbit?"

"Not a real one, it's for putting your pyjamas in, but it's in the shape of a fluffy white rabbit."

"That's very kind of you, Clara," said Mrs Parmar, more warmly. Clara muttered something disjointed.

Got past that one, thought John. The pyjama case was Sherlock's present, and when Immy had unwrapped it last night, she'd almost thumped Sherlock in fury.

"Whatever you do," Sherlock had said, "don't unzip it before you get home, Immy."

"Why not?"

"It's full of contraband."

"Really?" Immy's hand went to the zip.

"I said, don't open it. Code books, Top Trumps Dinosaurs, jelly snakes, a bag of plastic insects and a marked pack of cards. Might even find some Cheesy Wotsits, if you're lucky."

Immy had hugged Sherlock with absolute delight. And then tried, very incompetently, to pick his pocket.

Mustn't think about that now, John reminded himself. He had to wrap this up before Clara lost her nerve. He offered Immy a chocolate biscuit, which had the advantage of making Mrs Parmar decide they had to go because it was nearly lunchtime, and the disadvantage of nearly making Immy lose her cool, despite the fact that Sherlock had carefully preloaded her with sugar before disappearing.

Hold on, Immy, thought John, and bent down and gave her his warmest possible warning smile.

"It's been lovely having you to stay," he said, "but you need to remember not to scratch your scabs."

"There's a little scar on the bridge of her nose, I noticed it right away," said Mrs Parmar. "Will that fade?"

"I...we'll have to see. But the rest of her skin will be fine, I'm sure. You just need to have lots of rest, Imogen, and enjoy being back at home."

"Goodbye, Uncle John," Immy said, hugging him, "and thank you for the T-shirt and everything."

She wasn't at all tearful at this parting, which was...probably better. As Immy and the others went downstairs, he could hear her say cheerfully: "Can we just please go and say goodbye to Auntie Harry, so I can tell her about sharks? Because she might not have been to the London Aquarium and she really ought to know about it."

He smiled because, despite the added risk, there was something wonderful about the resilience of a seven-year old, and then went to retrieve Sherlock's skull from its hiding place.

***

It was suddenly terribly quiet in the flat with both Sherlock and Immy gone. John stripped his bed: there were a lot of biscuit crumbs he would have to clean out before he slept there tonight. No other trace of Immy now, except the ruined T-shirt, the white rabbit on the front now overlaid with pale blue stains. That had been Sherlock's fault, of course. If he hadn't identified the plants they'd found on Wednesday as woad, they wouldn't have ended up trying to extract the dye. And if he had kept a better eye on Immy at a crucial moment of the process, while John was trying to find a saucepan they no longer needed, Immy wouldn't have seized the chance to test the pigment on her own clothes. He wondered for a moment whether he should keep the T-shirt, but then put it firmly in the bin. He wasn't one for souvenirs, and it would be hard to explain.

The quiet weighed down on him, made him feel as if he'd abruptly gone deaf, and if Sherlock was out on a new case, today might be quite...boring. Then there was a sudden scramble of footsteps on the stairs outside, and Sherlock burst into the room.

"Right, John, that can wait, whatever it is, we need to compare case notes."

"What?"

"On our current case," said Sherlock, beaming. "The mystery of the Parmars."

***

Ten minutes later John was thinking longingly of a quiet, deserted flat, as Sherlock paced up and down past him, groaning loudly at the inadequacies of John's statements. It was almost like having Immy back, except Sherlock had a wider vocabulary of indignation.

"John, there is seeing and not observing and there's simply not seeing. Your descriptions of female clothing are entirely inadequate, and you're remarkably blank on many of the other key details about Mrs Parmar."

"I'm sorry, I was distracted by co-ordinating three bogus alibis, not to mention worrying about the Trojan Rabbit," John replied. "But I take it you've been tailing Annie Parmar anyhow, so you don't actually need me to tell you what she looked like."

"I followed them to Harry's flat, but I knew Immy had spotted me by then, and I was worried she might start giggling, so I gave up at that point."

"So what did I miss?" said John. "Smartly dressed, apart from her appalling taste in scarves. What is it about her and cats?"

"Exactly," said Sherlock. "We conclude from her clothes that she's respectable, sentimental and fundamentally selfish."

"Respectable and sentimental from the suit and the scarf," John said, leaning back and looking up at Sherlock. "Selfish, yes, but how do you deduce that from the clothes?"

"Her suit is good quality, and it's a designer scarf, hideous, but not cheap. Yet Immy's going round in clothes from Tesco."

"Maybe Mrs Parmar thinks it's a waste of time getting Immy expensive clothes, because she'll just ruin them," John said. "And she's almost certainly right about that."

"Yes, but if she cared about what Immy wanted to wear, there'd be fewer kittens, and if she cared about her comfort, Immy'd have a decent quality mac, not one that leaked, and if she cared about Immy's well-being, we wouldn't have been looking after her for the last week, however much Annie Parmar might have needed a break."

"She's not really neglecting her," said John. "You know that. Immy's well-fed, she has books, toys-"

"I know. Mrs Parmar likes being the mother of a seven-year old girl. She's not so keen on the specifics of being Immy's mother. And, of course, she's more concerned with appearances than substance. She spotted the chicken pox scar on Immy's nose, I take it?"

"Yes. I did try and stop her scratching that-"

"But not the knife cuts on her hand?"

"No, thank God." After all they'd been through, it had been John's fault that Immy had got hurt. If only he hadn't given into the temptation not to be boring, by showing her the old sleeve dagger that a friend from Special Ops had given him. Or at least he'd made sure that Immy didn't get within three feet of it...

"You're wallowing in unnecessary remorse again." Sherlock's voice broke into his thoughts. "Immy's hand is almost healed, there'll barely be a scar. Surely Harry did worse things to herself as a child?"

"She broke her arm trying to cycle with no hands. And, and she sprained her ankle parachuting off a wall, when she was five and I was seven. I thought she'd realised we were just pretending to be parachutists, and our coats wouldn't really hold us up if we jumped."

"Remind me to tell you some time about Mycroft and the nettle bed," said Sherlock. "Maybe we should have explained to Immy that there are some advantages to being an only child. Anyhow, back to Mrs Parmar."

"You said more concerned with style than substance," said John, slowly. "You mean, she notices the mark on Immy's face, but not what's potentially a more serious injury, to Immy's hand?"

"Exactly," Sherlock replied. "And similarly, chooses cheap T-shirts for Immy with pictures she finds appealing. And that of course, is one clue to the central mystery."

"You mean-"

"The absent Mr Parmar." 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What has Sherlock deduced about Immy Parmar's missing father?

"I don't think he is actually _Mr_ Parmar, but we'll get to that in a moment," said Sherlock. "I want to lay this out systematically, so you understand my chain of reasoning. What do we know about Immy's father?"

"That he's of Indian origin, that he's married or was married to Annie, and that, judging by Immy, he's very bright. Oh, and that whatever happened to him happened so early on in Immy's life that she remembers nothing about him, he's just a complete blank. That's not a lot to go on."

"You need to analyse, John, now you've got the basic data. Annie Parmar is a sentimental woman - so she's not a widow, or someone whose husband has somehow gone missing, through illness, or drink, or prison."

"Because...because she'd have told Immy about her poor dead, or tragically lost, or wrongfully imprisoned father, made into him a hero," said John. Sherlock nodded. "OK, so then she's divorced."

"She's still wearing her wedding ring."

"She, she likes being married," said John at length. He pulled out the business card she'd given him, when he'd asked for her address. "Yes, she's 'Mrs Annie Parmar' here. So she could be divorced, but still pretending to herself and the world she's married."

Sherlock stood in front of him, and looked down, smiling. "If she was divorced, but liked being married, she'd be looking for a second husband. So was she coming onto you, John, sizing you up as a potential mate?"

John's only coherent thought, as his fist went out, was: Good job Immy can't see this.

***

"John...I know you're missing Immy, and you've had a hard week...but can you try not to hit me like that again?" Sherlock wheezed. He had slumped onto his chair, which John suspected – hoped – was for effect more than because he was actually in pain.

"I'm sorry," he said, "I, I, Mrs Parmar didn't, and I wouldn't, and...you just have no idea about ordinary human decency, do you?"

"No," said Sherlock, "and I miscalculated your range as well. In fact, I probably didn't even need to ask you. Mrs Parmar's daughter is away for ten days, and yet she's not had her hair styled for a fortnight or more, if I judge correctly. She's not husband hunting, because she's still got one. Or at least his money."

"Money? Oh, I've been dim, haven't I?" John replied, unclenching his fists, and then seeing Sherlock nod. "She works part-time as a secretary, but she has a nice middle-class lifestyle. And it's unlikely to be inherited money, or Clara would be rich too."

"So Immy's father is still supporting his wife and daughter quite substantially, even though he's not on the scene anymore."

"Right, I'm with you so far. What next?"

"Now we get to the most obvious question, John, if you'd use your mind rather than just your emotions. What is a rather conventional, not very bright middle-class woman doing marrying a brilliant Indian?"

***

"Love," John repeated doggedly, for the fifth, or possibly the sixth time. "It makes the world go round, or so I heard. It even means there's someone on this planet prepared to put up with you."

"Yes, but how did they meet? And don't you dare to say 'Fate'," Sherlock almost spat. "This is scientific detection, not Mills and Boon."

"Work?" said John. "Nine or ten years ago, Annie could have come to London as a secretary."

"She gives no sign of knowing London well, so I doubt she's worked here. Clara's family are from near Oxford, aren't they? Bicester, I think. I suspect Annie went to secretarial college in Oxford."

"That's plausible. And...oh, I see. They met when she was at secretarial college or working in the area, and he was at university, because that's why a bright lad of Indian background is most likely to be in Oxford. I guess Annie wouldn't be likely to fall for someone working at the local convenience store. But we don't know he's actually Indian, do we, he could be ethnic minority British?"

"We'll get to that in a moment," said Sherlock, steepling his fingers. "So we agree, he's studying at Oxford?"

"Probably," said John, and got a haughty stare. "OK, yes."

"What's he studying?"

"Law?"

"Immy can memorise aeroplane numbers and Morse code, she loves card tricks, she can do adult Sudoko puzzles. That's not just a good education, that's unusual and innate mathematical and logical ability."

"So science, probably physical sciences. Or she could well be a medic's daughter, there are an awful lot of Indian medical students."

"Immy's not cut out for a doctor or an engineer, though, is she?"

"Probably not practically minded enough," John said. "But she doesn't have to be exactly like her father, Sherlock, heredity doesn't work like that."

"Admit it, she's an academic's child," said Sherlock. "And that would explain why Annie married him, wouldn't it?"

"I don't see-"

"Would she have married someone like Immy's father just because he might have a glittering future ahead? Or would he need to have a glittering present already?"

"I see," said John. "So he was a research student already, no, even that would be a bit uncertain. A postdoc, or maybe someone more senior. Or, of course, an SHO or a junior consultant."

"If he'd been much more senior, he either wouldn't have married her, or they'd have stayed together," Sherlock said, with absolute certainty. "His future was looking secure, he was wanting to settle down, he'd married someone presentable, they were about to have a child, or had just had a child...and then his life, his career changed."

"And?"

"And he left Oxford and went back to India."

"Sherlock, there are other explanations," John pointed out. This was his usefulness to Sherlock, in such conversations, after all, to state the patently obvious. "He may not have made it as a scientist or a medic. Or he may just have got fed up with it all, dropped out."

"Not made it, given up on it? This is Immy's father we're talking about, John. It's not just his brains she's inherited. Do you think the determination, the force in her comes from Annie Parmar and her family?"

Immy, despite her supposedly low threshold of boredom, would practice card tricks for hours to get them right. Immy could unbolt a door on a stranger's instructions, even if she couldn't reach the bolts. Sherlock was right, thought John. Immy's father would have got to the top, wouldn't he?

"OK, so he didn't drop out, and he almost certainly didn't stay in the UK. But there are lots of other places he could have gone, anywhere in the world."

"But Mrs Parmar didn't go with him, did she?" Sherlock said triumphantly. "If he'd gone to Yale or MIT, or Paris or Geneva or any of the other obvious places, she would have. But she wouldn't have been prepared to go off to the Third World, especially not with a baby, even more with a child on the way."

"You can live a very comfortable Westernised lifestyle somewhere like Delhi," John retorted.

"Yes, but Annie Parmar wouldn't realise that."

John could almost imagine it now, the way that Sherlock had described it. The eager young scientist, proud of his prestigious appointment back in his homeland. Maybe it had been the thought of Immy that had decided him, that he'd wanted her to be Indian as well as British, to belong where he belonged...

"So it must have been when Immy was a year or two old at most that he decided to go," he said. "They couldn't actually have gone out there, could they? Surely Immy would remember something of India, even if she'd only been a toddler?"

"I suspect that her father had decided to go even before she was born, was losing interest in Annie and England by then," Sherlock replied. "If he'd really been concentrating on Immy when she was born, he surely wouldn't have allowed her to be given that name. The initials are bad enough, but 'Imogen Marigold Parmar'? I ask you."

"What?" John was suddenly alert. What had Sherlock been up to this time?

"Immy's middle name is 'Marigold'. It's not just my parents who shouldn't be allowed near a birth certificate, is it?"

"How do you know Immy's full name?" John demanded.

Sherlock had realised now that he'd made a slip, but not yet how John knew it. "She told me," he said confidently, daring John to contradict him.

"She didn't," John replied quietly.

"How can you possibly know that, John?"

"Because I asked Immy what her full name was early in the week, in case I needed to write a prescription for her. And she said she wouldn't tell me her middle name, because it was so awful."

"Just because she wouldn't tell you, that doesn't mean she didn't tell me." Sherlock was turning on the charm now, but it didn't work on John reliably anymore, and he bet it hadn't worked on Immy.

"If she wouldn't tell her boring, horrible name to me, do you think she'd tell it to the coolest person she knows?"

"I'm the coolest person she knows, am I?" said Sherlock grinning. "Though, of course, nothing like as cool as a gecko."

"Sherlock," John said, trying not to lose it for the second time in the conversation, "Immy didn't tell her your middle name. It's not on her clothes and you haven't talked to her mother. And if you claim that Clara told you, I will phone up and check."

"I-"

"You've been investigating Immy, haven't you? You've been poking into her records," John snapped. And then sat in his chair, and folded his arms, and didn't get up. And tried to remember that this was Sherlock and sometimes he didn't just understand about what was OK to do and what wasn't. Sherlock looked at him, and he could see him filing the moment away as 'another of John's irrational prejudices', and trying to calculate exactly what to say to repair the damage.

But when Sherlock spoke, all he said was "Yes. I've seen a copy of her birth certificate". No excuses or apologies, except in his eyes. His eyes weren't quite as eloquent as Immy's - what adult's could be? – but it was enough.

"What have you found?" asked John quietly.

"It gave her father's name, and he was easy to trace with that. You can always locate a researcher via their publications."

"So all these deductions you've been telling me about who he is were so much bullshit," John said. "You knew what he was, and where he was, all along."

"When I got his details it just confirmed what I'd already deduced," said Sherlock, and then gave a half-grin. "Well, most of what I'd deduced. I didn't bother to mention the bits I got wrong."

"OK," said John, "So who is Dr Parmar, or Professor Parmar, or whatever he is?"

"A senior research scientist with ISRO."

"Which is?"

"The Indian Space Research Organisation."

"Immy's father's an astronaut?"

"Not quite, but pretty close."

"That's amazing," John said, and he couldn't help smiling. "When do we tell her?"

"We don't," said Sherlock, and there was a stillness about him now, as if nothing but thoughts mattered, everything else relegated to transport. "Dr Parmar went back to India when Immy was only a few months old. He hasn't, as far as we know, been in contact with her since. Even I can recognise that's inadequate parenting."

"Mrs Parmar might not be letting him contact Immy."

"Seven years? They're still married, so he'd have access rights, and Immy's living ten miles from where she was born. It's not the nineteenth century, John. Annie Parmar could intercept letters and e-mails, maybe even phone calls. She couldn't stop him getting on a flight and coming over. If he cared about Immy, he could find a way to meet her. Even you should be able to deduce the corollary."

He doesn't care, thought John. Poor, poor Immy.

"Immy's going to work it out," he said at last. "At some point she's bound to wonder about him, and she's going to want to know. Immy always wants to know things."

"And she'll come to the world's only consulting detective," said Sherlock, getting up to go and stare out of the window, his back to John. "I told her free consultations for the next ten years. I can provide her with any data she needs on her father. You have to help her work out what to do with that." He paused, and then added: "I imagine it would be quite difficult for her meeting him. Because...Annie Parmar wouldn't have fallen for someone, married someone, just because of his brains, if he wasn't presentable. He must have had something more."

Charm, thought John, charisma? The kind of brilliant, forceful personality that could sweep you away, against your better judgement? That was a dangerous combination, certainly, especially if allied to a carelessness about other people, about their feelings, emotions. He suddenly felt a tiny spark of sympathy for Mrs Parmar.

"So we just wait?" he said. "And do nothing, keep quiet?"

"We focus our minds on more immediately soluble problems, John. Such as why there is a recently retired Royal Marine sergeant heading for our door, and what problem of his is so urgent that he's coming to see me without an appointment."


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Immy Parmar may have left 221B, but that's not the end of the story...

It was just after five that John received a text from Harry's mobile, and he groaned. He'd threatened Harry with prison for child neglect if she started drinking while the Parmars were still around, but she'd probably been making up for it ever since. Then he read the text:

 _At home so boring Told mum ihave dire rear and locked mMyself in loo ask shirlok where to hide small things please IMP_

He checked the number again, begging himself to be wrong, but he wasn't.

"Sherlock!" he shouted across the room, "Immy's nicked Harry's phone."

Sherlock opened his eyes, from where he was lounging on the sofa. The marine sergeant hadn't been very interesting after all.

"That was very...remiss of Immy," he replied, sounding just a little too unimpressed. What was it Sherlock had said to her just before he left this morning, thought John. Something like "Remember what I told you about Harry"? Oh God, no, surely not even Sherlock...

"Did you put her up to this?" John said, and it came out as a croak. "Because if you did, I will..." He stopped, because he honestly couldn't think what he'd do.

Sherlock was clearly eyeing up his self-defence options as he answered: "Immy asked me how to take Harry's phone, and if it was OK, and I said it was OK to borrow it for a few days till Harry noticed it was missing, but she'd have to return it then."

"Do you have no moral sense at all? Anything else you told Immy? That arson, blackmail, murder are all fine?"

"I told her that it might take Harry a while to realise she'd lost the phone, because alcoholics are often careless with their possessions."

John found himself sitting down, because his leg was just about to buckle. "You told a seven-year old that my sister's an alcoholic?"

"Immy's nearly seven and a half, and she'd already heard the word. From you, I believe, John."

"Oh God, yes. The night Harry passed out, I let something slip." His head dropped into his hands.

"It's just as well you did," said Sherlock. "Don't be ridiculous. Immy knew there was something seriously wrong with Harry, how could she not after what had happened? She just didn't know what. But because she's heard the word from you, she could ask me what it meant, and I could explain it to her properly, rather than have you or Clara or her mother be embarrassed and try and change the subject. Immy wanted the facts about it, John, just like about everything else."

"The facts about addiction and blackouts and sickness and possible death?"

"The fact that even if you've been an addict you can get clean if you choose to, when you're ready to. That you can overcome drink and drugs. And I told her about people I'd known who had."

"You didn't...you didn't tell her about you using cocaine, did you?"

"No, I told her about Mycroft beating his addiction to prescription painkillers."

John's brain was getting so scrambled that it took him a moment to work that one out.

"Mycroft? Painkillers? He wouldn't...Sherlock, you made that up, didn't you? You told Immy some claptrap about Mycroft. You lied to her, you bastard!"

"Yes, but I'm confident that she won't spot the weak points of my story for several years. And I thought the emphasis on the redeeming power of brotherly love as a help to recovery was a rather nice touch. Now pass me your phone, because even Annie Parmar's going to get suspicious if Immy's in the toilet for too long."

***

"I shouldn't have let you do that," John said, as they sat eating that evening. "I should not have let you send secret messages to a seven-year old on a stolen phone."

"It's only for a week or so, then she can discover that she 'accidentally' put it in her pocket when she was playing in Harry's flat."

"It's still wrong! We're turning Immy into a criminal mastermind before she's left primary school."

"She's bored and lonely, and she needs someone to talk to. Besides, I have to get her into training," Sherlock announced. "You know, I used to imagine how handy it would be to have a gang of young informants as my eyes and ears in the city. Children of ten, eleven, twelve, John, they can go anywhere: no-one notices them, unless they're noisy, but they notice everything. A whole army of irregulars to help me – but of course, it didn't occur to me before that girls are so much more observant and sneakier than boys."

John could feel the anger coiling up inside him. "Sherlock, you are not using Immy as an underage lookout. I will get you sent to prison rather than that! " As he glared across at Sherlock, he suddenly noticed the detective's twitching lips. "Oh God, you're winding me up, aren't you?"

"You're not normally quite such an easy target," said Sherlock, his smile broadening. "But to reassure you, Immy does not want to be my assistant at any time in the future, because it would interfere with her astronaut training. Even when I offered her a weekend-only apprenticeship, so she could become the world's first consulting detective in space."

John concentrated on his pasta for a moment, and said nothing. Sometimes, it was better not to.

"You can vet the texts I send to Immy if you like," Sherlock went on, after a pause. "I won't encourage her to do anything you disapprove of, or that'll get her into trouble. Well, not more trouble than she could get into entirely on her own accord."

"One week, two at the maximum," said John. "Just because...she's going to be so bored in Oxfordshire, even back with her friends."

"Of course. Which is why she's going to be very pleased when you write to her."

"What?"

"You're right, John, I can't keep in contact with Immy, but you can. You're her Uncle John, after all."

"I'm not her uncle, I'm just her aunt's partner's brother. Her aunt's ex-partner's brother. If she's coming to stay in London again in the autumn half-term, Clara has to tell Annie that it really is over between her and Harry."

"Of course," said Sherlock. "Which is why, if you, we, are going to spend time with Immy then, as we want to and as Immy does, you need to establish a relationship with her that doesn't just depend on being Harry's brother. Therefore you need to start writing to Immy and do it soon, so Mrs Parmar gets used to the idea."

"I can't keep on writing to a seven-year old girl, it's creepy."

"You're not writing to a random seven-year old. You're writing to Immy Parmar, who is a sweet, bright, and lonely girl who you obviously already have paternal feelings towards, and who shares your love of science. Mrs Parmar doesn't think you're creepy, John, does she?"

"No, but she thinks I have lousy taste in T-shirts."

"You have an instinctively correct taste in T-shirts," Sherlock said cheerfully. "I'd have gone overboard and got her something with sharks on, and Annie Parmar wouldn't have let her wear it. A tree frog is just cute enough to pass off as the gift of a kindly and conscientious, if slightly clueless uncle."

"Sherlock," John replied wearily, "are you trying to insult me or compliment me?"

"I'm trying to say, John, that you're conventional enough not to worry Mrs Parmar, and unconventional enough not to bore Immy. And concerned enough to stay in touch with a girl who's obviously in need of a father figure."

"I'm not marrying Mrs Parmar," John announced. "Not even for Immy's sake."

"Mrs Parmar doesn't want your attention, John, which is probably just as well, because some of the rest of us definitely do. Like Immy. So, tomorrow morning, you need to write to her."

"Have we got her e-mail address?"

"A handwritten letter. All your letters to Immy are going to be handwritten."

"I haven't written a letter by hand in years," said John. "And it's harder to read."

"Exactly," Sherlock replied. "Which will discourage Mrs Parmar from doing more than skimming through them, if that. Very handy if you, we, need to discuss things with Immy that we'd prefer her mother not to read."

"Yes, but if Mrs Parmar finds my handwriting hard to read, so will Immy...Oh God." It suddenly came back to John. "Forensic document examination. You said Immy had to learn to recognise different styles of handwriting, tell which of us had written a note. You trained her to be able to read our writing, haven't you? You were planning this back then. You are a complete and absolute bastard."

"And you are more gullible even than Immy, sometimes, my dear John, and I wouldn't have you any other way," Sherlock replied. "Now, if you're finished your pasta, maybe we should see what state your bedroom is in."

***

 _Dear Imogen_ , John wrote the next day, _I hope your spots are all gone now and that you have remembered not to scratch the scabs. It's very quiet in 221B now you're not here. Harry and Clara miss you as well. We still don't know whether Harry will get your chicken pox, because the incubation period can be up to 21 days. Clara wonders if by any chance one of their phones accidentally got left in your suitcase when she was packing it. I'm sure you're looking forward to school, especially since you said you might be going to do a project on rainforests_.

He stopped. This was no good. This was...a boring letter. He wanted to tell Immy that even though she had a selfish mother, and a hopeless father, and an aunt who folded under pressure, and an alcoholic ex-aunt-in-law, she was still clever and talented and funny and wonderful, and there was nothing in the world that could stop her if she put her mind to it. But he couldn't let Mrs Parmar read that, and besides, Immy was only seven and a half, and she didn't like sentiment, she liked facts. She liked facts...

He began to write again:

 _Do you remember your friend Sherlock from next door? He wanted me to tell you that he'd just read an article about the giant bamboo rats of Sumatra. They're about 50 cm long, with a 20 cm tail, and they can weigh up to 4 kg. They've got grey fur, and they live underground in burrows, and they feed on bamboo, but the roots of it, not the stems, like pandas..._

He signed the letter 'Uncle John' and read it through. It was kindly, it was informative, it was not completely boring, at least by Immy's distinctive standards. It was a letter that breathed 'mildly eccentric but fundamentally reliable uncle'. It had hurt his wrist a hell of a lot to write.

He finished addressing the envelope and then hesitated. He could keep on sending letters to Immy, he was conscientious about things like that. But if he wrote from duty, or because Sherlock wanted him to, Immy would realise it. Maybe not now, but eventually. And she wouldn't enjoy letters written because he felt he must write.

But no, he thought, as he picked up the letter and headed out to the post-box. This wasn't really about duty. Because occasionally you met someone who was clever and talented and funny and wonderful, like...Immy. Someone who could do anything they wanted if they put their mind to it, and didn't run off the rails. Learnt to use their abilities, their charm, to good effect, not to hurt people. And someone like that, with so much potential and so little common sense, needed someone reliable, practical, _boring_ , to keep an eye on them, look after them, care for them. Even when they were no longer seven and a half.


End file.
